Out of the Clear Blue Sky
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Monsters in the Mirror, #11. *Five times Deathstroke showed up uninvited, and the one time she didn't.* Takes place between "Playing with Fire and "One for the Team" (Ch9 Bits and Pieces). Starts in Season 1, but gradually progresses into Season 2. Complete.


**Title: Out of the Clear Blue Sky  
Word Count: 10,468**

 **Notes:** I know it's been a while, guys! I feel absolutely terrible about leaving you hanging for so long, but, well, writer's block is the devil. I appreciate all of you being so supportive about it; I'm truly blessed. Contrary to popular belief, "writer" is not a synonym for "fic-producing machine," and most of the time, I'd say writing is more torture than fun—especially over the last few weeks. I'm kind of surprised I didn't go insane, to be honest, with all of the stories clawing at the back of my mind that beg to be written. But there's no better way for me to get back into writing than Monsters in the Mirror—hands down, my favorite universe to write.

This entire thing is Lexi's (AlexiaBlackbriar13) fault. I read her fic "Unexpected Visitor" on AO3 and we had conversation (linked on my profile) about an idea that eventually became #4. With her permission, decided to do some things with it. In addition to that, this is my _first ever_ five-times-and-one story, so I'm excited about that, too. In addition, I got to use a few of the dialogue prompts I saved specifically for this purpose, and I regret nothing.

Be warned that I'm about to practice human medicine. *shudders* If I wanted to do that, I wouldn't have applied to vet school. I did do my research, but if I've screwed up, let me know.

There's some early season jumping; we start off in S1, for the first two, but the others are in S2, hopping around in true MitM fashion.

Finally (last note, I swear!), unlike the show, we are going to use actual rules of corporations and businesses. Corporate laws aren't unicorns; they exist. So there will be no bizarre "watering down stock" or the-CEO-rules-the-world, and, like most corporations I know of, we are going to have a Board of Directors with a president, _in addition to_ a CEO. Get ready for some _real_ US business procedures.

Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated, but no matter what, thank you for taking the time to read. You guys are awesome— _all_ of you.

 **1\. Over Hot Coals**

By the time John Diggle arrives home, he's been on three different job interviews and he's ready for nothing more than a quiet night with the football game and probably a beer. Ever since Oliver prioritized a name in the list over Deadshot, he's been looking for a new place to go. The billionaire vigilante might still pay the bills since he left, but John is looking for a clean break.

Sighing, he turns his key in the door, and immediately senses that something is wrong before he even turns on the lights. His curtains are fluttering in the wind, and he _knows_ he didn't leave his window open. Tensing, Diggle pulls his gun from the small of his back before reaching for the light switch.

The room is still in low light, but it's enough to see that his uninvited guest isn't going to hurt him. Felicity is half-in and half-out of her Deathstroke gear, not unlike the first time he met her, still dressed in the leather jacket, pants, and combat boots. But she also wears her glasses and a green T-shirt with a picture of a green-skinned woman with red hair covered in vines and with a rose in her hand. The words above the picture read, _Every Rose Has its Thorn_ , and John can't help but agree with that sentiment.

Though he's less than pleased to see her on his couch, he _is_ glad that she looks as uncomfortable as he feels. She sits on the edge of the couch cushion with her back ramrod straight, and it doesn't appear that she's helped herself to his things. "Let me guess," he says in a dry tone, putting his gun back in place, "Oliver put you up to this."

"Of course not," Felicity answers, rising to her feet. "He told me you left, and I figured it was because he did something stupid. That's kind of implied at this point." They share a slight smile as the blonde crosses her arms, the gesture almost self-conscious as if she's trying to put barriers between them. All at once, she seems small and frail, yet he knows she's one of the strongest people he's ever met. Despite his other opinions of her, Digg will always admire her for that. "He means well, but… Oliver doesn't really understand what it's like to have a partner."

"So you think I should just let him do whatever the hell he wants and suffer no consequences?" he counters, crossing his arms, too. Sighing, he goes to his kitchen; John definitely needs that beer now. "Do you want anything?"

"No, thank you," she answers politely. Only when he returns to the living room and sits down in his recliner does she sit again. "Of course I don't think that," Felicity answers his question, shaking her head. "I told him the two of you were on tenuous ground after he decided to take on Ted Gaynor because of something written in a book." She shakes her head. "But Oliver doesn't exactly listen to me."

Diggle can't help the snort that leaves him; of all the people he's watched interact with Oliver, Felicity is the one who can consistently get through to him. Before he can suggest that aloud, she continues, "And you _should_ be mad at him. You should be _furious_. Oliver made you a promise and didn't honor it because of something minor." She holds up her hands. "I know we aren't friends, John, and it's not my place to ask—if he had any other occupation in the world, I wouldn't—but…"

She trails off, steeling herself with a sudden ferociousness, her mouth turning down in a grim frown as she locks her hands together in her lap. "I've never begged for anything in my life," Felicity confesses to him in a small voice, changing subjects without warning. "There have been times when I wanted to—especially in Japan." She laughs as she studies her hands, but there isn't any humor in the sound. "They say the last thing you have left in those sorts of situations is your life, but that's not really true. The last thing I had left was my integrity and my pride, and I would have preferred death to losing them by pleading and groveling."

When she looks up at Diggle again, it's as if she's removed that black-and-gold mask for the first time. She has allowed herself to be vulnerable, and he knows how hard that must be for Felicity. "And right now, I am _begging_ you to go back, John," she declares, removing all doubt from her tone. "I know it isn't fair and I don't have the right, but I am anyway. Whether Oliver can admit it or not, he needs you."

"Me?" Diggle asks, a little surprised by her declaration. "Felicity, you know as well as I do that Oliver can handle himself." He crosses his arms, adamant that he isn't going to give in to her pleas. "And he has you when he needs backup. I'm sure he's just as glad to be rid of me."

She's already shaking her head by the time he finishes. "It's not about his skill with a bow or his ability to fight crime on his own, John," she argues, her tone hardening. "You're right— _I_ can back him up if he needs it. But the service you provide has nothing to do with any of that." His brows knit together in confusion, a silent indication for her to explain.

Leaning forward, the blonde continues, "I don't know if you've noticed this or not, but Oliver is a good man. He doesn't always see it in himself and he doesn't always show it—because he's been forced to do so many horrible things that he sees himself as horrible, too." For a moment, Digg wonders if she's talking about Oliver or herself. "You're a good man, too. You've seen horrible things in the army, but you survived it without letting war tarnish you. You can remind him of the nicer side of human nature."

The smile she gives him is a little forced, and it does nothing to hide the sadness in her eyes. "I can't. I may be the lesser of two evils, but, as you told me, the lesser of two evils is still evil. You make him better, but I just drag him down. Which is why I should back away and run." Felicity points at him with a sudden fierceness. "And if you ever repeat this, I will cheerfully cut out your tongue, but I don't think I _can_ walk away."

All at once, it's as though he's seeing a new side of Felicity Smoak. He originally thought her relationship with Oliver was equal parts friendship and shameless flirting. He's watched Oliver stare at the blonde's ass too many times for it to be purely platonic, but Diggle had the idea that theirs was a friends-with-benefits sort of arrangement. Now he realizes that it runs deeper than that, and he wonders how he could have missed it, when it seems so clear now. She genuinely cares for the billionaire vigilante, so much that she's concerned about parts of his well-being that Oliver himself is not.

Even more surprising, perhaps, is the fact that John is talking to a woman he so rarely gets to see. She spends so much time putting on a brave face that he occasionally forgets she isn't all bloodlust, smiles, and bad puns. The woman in front of him tonight, though, is the one he talked to in the diner so long ago, before he learned how she spent her nights, the one who calmly told him about all she endured and was maybe a little less broken than she had every right to be. But yet she's in his apartment, throwing away the dignity she fought so hard to hold on to because of one billionaire vigilante.

Oliver _is_ an idiot, John decides, because this woman would walk over hot coals for him and he doesn't see it.

The problem is that Digg shouldn't like Felicity. She's a killer, a monster who doesn't hesitate to step on anyone in her way. He's watched her work before, and he knows she has a sadistic streak and can torture a man coldly and impersonally while maintaining a cheerful conversation. But, despite those qualities, she's also fiercely protective of those she cares about—which, somehow, includes him. Because of that, he finds himself growing rather fond of her, anyway.

With a long, drawn-out sigh, he finally admits, "I'll give him a chance." He points at her in warning. "But if he decides to go rushing off to save Laurel at the expense of everyone else in his life, I'm walking away for good the next time."

"If it makes you feel any better," she allows, rising to her feet again, "I have plans to beat the stupidity out of him later. We have a training session tomorrow." She grins, and it isn't a particularly nice grin. In fact, John thinks it seems like the grin Cruella de Vil would wear while staring at the Dalmatian puppies that were going to become her next fur coat. "Swords again." She winks. "I'll make sure he apologizes to you before the day is through." Her smile loses its sinister edge as she says, "Thanks for the talk, Diggle. I know you'd like to get me out of your hair. I'll see myself out."

She takes a few steps, but John can't let her go yet. "Felicity?" he calls, causing her to turn. "For the record, I was wrong about you before." Felicity might not be innocent, but she's not beyond redemption. As his grandmother used to say: _the greater the sinner, the greater the saint_. "And I think you might be wrong about yourself."

"Don't try to put me in a box, John," she says, sliding through the window. "Not all of us can be saved."

* * *

 **2\. Twist the Knife**

Of the many things Tommy Merlyn has done in the last five years to grow up, perhaps his best choice was moving out of his home. He did it a few years ago, and it's brought him away from his father's clutches. It may be true that the billionaire now spends most of his nights at Laurel's, but until they're _really_ ready to move in together, it's a nice place for some peace and quiet.

He's in the middle of going through the club's reports at the bar when there's a slam and a thud. Confused, he turns just in time to see a dark figure stagger through the double-doors of his balcony. Tommy Isn't too proud to admit he screams—a very dignified scream that does _not_ sound at all like a pre-pubescent girl—but then she moves into the light and he sighs.

Still, she rolls her eyes as she glares at him, mask removed and her hair falling out of its braid in tendrils that stick up in strange directions. "Shut up, Tommy!" she demands. "Don't do that. Your neighbors will think I'm murdering you. Sorry for the rude entrance, but you were the closest and I feel like I'm going to pass out."

Before he can do more than rise to his feet, she takes a few steps forward, staggering a little. She's pale and sweating, and his heart nearly stops when he sees blood smeared across her collar bone and pink tank top. "Oh, my God," he breathes out, too stunned to move. If Ollie were here, he'd know what to do, but all Tommy can manage is wide-eyed staring. "There is a knife—"

"Yeah," is all Felicity says, as though this is a perfectly normal thing that she encounters every day. Then again, it might be. "Occupational hazard."

Though she's gotten the gist, he can't help himself from finishing the sentence, "—in your _chest!_ " There's a black handle sticking out of her shoulder, like someone put an honest-to-God hunting knife in her for fun. He thought mob guys were more pop-you-in-the-kneecap types.

This time she rolls her eyes, nearly falling and catching herself on the side table next to the couch. "No kidding," Felicity responds dryly, unbuckling her sword belt and letting it drop to the ground. "If you ever decide to become a vigilante, we're naming you Captain Obvious. I'm gonna need some towels so I don't bleed all over your couch."

"Oh my God," he breathes. Tommy tilts sideways a little at the blood and wonders if it's possible to faint from someone else's injuries. Somehow he manages to remain standing, but he has to hold on to the counter for support.

Somehow she's still standing, and Tommy thinks it might be by sheer determination. If it were anyone else, that might be humor, but she's one of the most bull-headed, stubborn people on the planet—and he's come to that conclusion after being Oliver Queen's best friend for most of his life. " _Lemá'an hashém_ ," she says with a groan, switching into a language he doesn't recognize. It isn't anything new; Felicity speaks eleventy-billion languages, and when she gets tired, they all blend together. " _I'm_ supposed to be the one going into shock, not you!" Cutting her eyes at him, she barks more firmly, "Towels, Merlyn."

For a moment, he can't help but think she missed a calling as a drill sergeant because he immediately snaps into action. He's only seen the Deathstroke side of his second best friend once before—when Starling's own Wes Craven decided to take Roy for his next B-list flick—and she was terrifying then, too. But _nothing_ like this. Maybe it's her odd calm while she has the world's biggest knife sticking out of her shoulder that adds to it this time.

When he comes back and places the towels, she drapes herself over his couch, lying on her back. "I don't have any medical supplies," he warns her. "Do I need to call Ollie?" The answer to that question is simple, and Tommy realizes it even as he asks: of course he does. Even if she had this completely under control, Ollie might decide to use him for target practice if he didn't.

"Already have," she answers, reaching for something in her pocket with her bad arm. She winces a few times, but somehow she's surprisingly chill about the whole huge-honking-knife-in-her-chest thing. "He and Digg are coming with a first aid kit, but for now…" She pulls a bottle and huge-ass syringe out of her pocket. "Lidocaine." He can only knit his eyebrows together, and Felicity explains, "Local anesthetic. It can be working while we're waiting for him to get here. Pushing the supplies into his hands, she instructs him how much to pull up.

While he slowly does as she asks, he looks again at the knife location before asking, "Not that I'm not glad, but how did that manage not to hit your heart?"

To his surprise, Felicity laughs at that. "I don't have one," she teases, and he doubts if she has any idea how much Tommy appreciates her ability to make jokes at a time like this. If he had to think about this for any length of time, he'd probably panic. In a more serious answer, she taps the middle of her sternum as she explains, "The heart is located here. It's a three-inch knife—barely punctured the pleural cavity." As if disgusted, she frowns. "I'm lucky they went for the heart instead of the brachial plexus. Otherwise you'd be talking to a corpse."

Tommy passes her the now filled syringe, and she thumps it a few times with her fingernails. Without warning, she stabs next to the knife. He gags as she continues while injecting the substance, "Sorry about the gruesome sight, but it's better to keep the blade in place. It seals the wound and keeps my lungs from deflating."

He can only stare at her for a long moment. "What the hell happened to you in Japan?" It's probably an unfair question, but he has no idea how she can manage to be so blasé about a knife in her chest and the possibility of almost dying. Too late he realizes his mistake; the few times Tommy has tried to ask Oliver about the island, he's tensed up and given vague, generic answers.

Felicity doesn't seem so cagey. "The next time you ask me that," she responds, her tone dark with warning, "I'm going to tell you, Tommy."

* * *

 **3\. The Midnight Oil**

As soon as Ray Palmer dismisses his housekeeper for the night, he immediately goes to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Though his workday might be over, he's still burning the midnight oil; there was the robbery yesterday, Palmer Tech still has some outstanding business mergers for him to work through, and being on the Board of Directors at Queen Consolidated is more of a challenge than he expected at first.

Truthfully, Ray had no initial interest in joining the Board, but after the previous mayor died, a vacancy had been made that needed to be filled. After his widow had sold the shares back to the company, Ray had leapt at the chance to gather them up at the low share value he knew would only continue to skyrocket under QC's leadership. It made him next in line for the board because of the number of shares he owns—a minor five percent. It's not enough to earn him a title, which is unfortunate, but it does allow him a little power.

Ray would have loved to buy out the company—perhaps just as much as fellow board member Isabel Rochev. He thought it would be a steal with Oliver Queen taking charge, but it turns out he's far more intelligent than Ray originally gave him credit for. He might have had to sell out controlling interest to pay for his mother's legal fees, but the CEO President of the Board wasted no time aligning himself with a business partner who stands with him—with _Board officers_ who stand with him. His forty-five percent of the company combined with his VP's whopping twenty-four percent means that, as long as the two of them stand together, they're untouchable.

However, if they ever fall apart, that's another story. Ray's been poking that partnership gently, just to test it, but he's slowly deciding that Queen made a good choice with Felicity. Loyalty like that can't be bought with a trust fund, but the President and CEO of Palmer Tech can't help but wonder how Queen managed to secure it. In addition to being the strongest partnership he's ever seen, she's also one of the finest technological minds of their generation, with a good head for business.

Then again, he wouldn't expect anything less from Noah Kuttler's daughter, the one he groomed from birth to be his protégé.

A sound interrupts him, small and insignificant, but enough to give him pause. While he might be staying in the penthouse suite of the finest hotel in Starling, he's heard stories about the vigilantes that roam the streets at night. Someone told him they spent last year targeting the rich, and so he took the liberty of creating his own security system.

He's just about to go back to the room he uses as his office when he's abruptly slammed into the wall. His mug of coffee shatters to the ground, but he has more important things to think about right now—like the small hand wrapped around his throat and the battering ram that has him held against the wall.

Ray expects his assailant to be tall. He expects him to be bulky and clock in at over two hundred with all the muscles. But when he stares at his attacker, he has to look down to meet the eyes hidden behind the mask split vertically between black and gold halves. _Way_ down. There's no question that figure belongs to a woman, her frame surprisingly small for a woman who can pin a man easily twice her size in place. She's so close that he can see her eyes are blue and thick, black grease paint is smeared around her eyes where the mask doesn't cover.

He struggles against her grip, but, as it turns out, she doesn't have to pin him at all. As if bored with the whole exchange already, she just takes a sword from the sheaths on her back and presses it against his throat. The metal is cold and unforgiving, not unlike the eyes of the woman in front of him.

"Deathstroke," a voice behind her calls, warning lacing his voice. Ray looks up to find that he has _two_ intruders tonight. The other is what he expected from the first—tall, broad-shouldered, with a menacing frown and a presence that screams _I will kill you, bow or not_. In fact, the bow in his hand seems to be an insult to the threat the rest of him presents. He's dressed in hunter green from head to toe, wearing a hood and eye mask instead of a full face mask like his partner's.

"I don't know what you want from me," the CEO starts, raising his open palms, "but I haven't done anything wrong. I've made my millions the honest way, and I don't have access to any of it right now. Everything runs from Coast City. I haven't done anything—"

I have no interest in your money, Dr. Palmer," the woman declares—Deathstroke, the other called her. "We don't take money from honest businessmen." She tilts the blade ever so slightly, and he picks up on Japanese Kanji carved into the blade. He's never been that great at languages and his Japanese is a little rusty, but he picks up the phrase _fights with monsters_. His fiancée was the linguist, not him.

As if the sword wasn't excessive enough, she pulls a green-handled switchblade from her pocket, poking the edge against his armpit. "This is your brachial plexus," she informs him in an eerily calm tone. "It's a place where all the little nerves, arteries, and veins come together before going to your arm. If I stab you here, you'll probably die before you can call nine-one-one." Ray can feel the blood draining from his face. "So I'd highly suggest not moving."

He expects a series of demands to come next, but instead, the hooded guy asks his partner, "Is that my switchblade?" It would make a lot of sense, Ray supposes, with the green handle. He can't figure out if the guy is a Robin Hood fan, or if green is just his favorite color.

"I helped myself to your pants," she answers with a shrug that somehow doesn't alter the placement of the blade at the billionaire's throat. Silence passes through the room for a moment, and then her eyes go wide, as if recognizing her mistake. "I mean, while you weren't in them—not that I felt you up or picked your pocket. I wouldn't do that to you. We're friends, after all. Well, the feeling up has to do with common decency, but the not pickpocketing you thing has to do with being friends." Taking a deep breath, she finally concludes, "I helped myself to your weapon jackpot down in the Dungeon of Things That Will Definitely Kill You. I hope you don't mind."

Without warning, she changes tacks, nudging Ray deeper into the wall to avoid her blade. "I'm here about the Skeleton Key." He blinks twice at the codename; most of his own company doesn't even know that project exists. How did she? "Your company designed it as a military tool to aid in code-breaking for foreign intelligence targets." She makes a sound in her throat that he'd classify as a growl. "You're just a bunch of scientists, though, and you never stopped to think about the consequences and how this could be used for more sinister purposes. I know you had the only prototype until yesterday. I want to know who you sold it to and why."

"I didn't sell it—" Ray starts.

Even though it's the truth, it's also the wrong thing to say, judging by her response. Deathstroke pushes the flat of her blade against his throat; it won't cut, but it's enough to rattle him a little. "There's no point in lying to me, Dr. Palmer," she declares, steamrolling over the top of him. Somehow her voice manages to be even more menacing under the circumstances. "I saw the money transfer in your account." There's no way she'd see it unless she was a hacker, and he wonders who would possibly hack for a woman as unstable as her.

"If you would put down the katana, I could explain everything," he starts, but that doesn't have any effect except causing her eyes to widen. Her gaze flicks to the Kanji on the blade before going back to him. "It was an oversight error," he tries to explain. "I already called the bank about it and—"

" _Don't lie to me!_ " she roars, and his hands shake in pure terror. The one in the green calls out her codename again, and Ray is starting to wonder if he can say anything else. Deathstroke's next words are low, and somehow that makes them twice as terrifying. "I've seen the evidence myself, Dr. Palmer, and lying under sword point can be very hazardous to your health. I'm not going to allow you to lie to me any longer." There seems to be some history in those words, and for a moment, the CEO wonders if he met her before. "I'm going to ask one more time, but if you lie to me again, I _will not hesitate_ to make your head into a new soccer ball."

He jumps when a voice calls from behind her, "That's _enough_." Ray jumps and wonders if she'll decapitate him for that, but suddenly her weight is removed from him. Robin Hood seizes the smaller vigilante under her arms, pulling her away. He slings her across the room lightly, and of course Deathstroke lands on her feet.

Ray tries to make a run for it, but stumbles and falls onto all fours. Before he can get back up again, an arrow catches the back of his shirt. "You stay put," the man in the green hood demands of him. Part of the businessman knows that the shot was clearly planned; there's no question he could have elected to pierce through skin instead.

Rightfully, Robin Hood turns his attention back to his small-yet-fierce counterpart. She might have sheathed her sword and pocketed the switchblade, but the way she stalks toward him indicates she's probably just as dangerous without them. "What the hell, Arrow?" she demands, her voice rising a little. Deathstroke pokes a finger into her partner's chest. Ray braces himself for a fight to break out, but it never comes. The Arrow—a completely uncreative name, if you ask him—doesn't even flinch, glaring down at her. "Don't. You. _Ever_. Do that to me again." Her tone isn't even directed at him, but the businessman still flinches.

The Arrow is unrepentant, not backing down from her. "I told you I'd let you take lead on this only as long as you were in control," he reminds her. He throws a glance at Ray before continuing the conversation in what the CEO recognizes as Russian. He doesn't speak the language, so it's lost on him.

Their argument turns heated, Deathstroke waving her arms wildly and yelling. The Arrow, however, runs cold, responding to her in an even, clipped tone as he towers so close to her that, under different circumstances, Ray would assume he was about to kiss her. Neither one backs down for what feels like an eternity, until the woman with the swords finally deflates with a grudging nod.

Whatever the decision, the man in the green hood places a hand on her shoulder, letting it travel down her arm as he walks away, back toward Ray. As the two vigilantes' hands touch, however, they grasp each other's hands for a moment. It's such a simple moment, but yet it seems to explain so much about their interactions to him.

The Arrow doesn't threaten him with weapons like his bloodthirsty counterpart, instead kneeling in front of him. Hard, blue eyes study him, cold and calculating. Ray knows this kind of man so much better than the wild card with a sword: he's the kind who does well at business because he can read people and takes the time to do so.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," the masked man declares in a low, synthesized voice, "and you're going to answer them. I would recommend against lying to me." It isn't a detailed threat, like the one Deathstroke uttered, but it somehow manages to be twice as chilling when spoken in a tone as calm and quiet as his. "Unlike my partner, I have no intention of killing you, but don't take that as weakness." He motions to his counterpart. "Deathstroke is opposed to torture. I am not." Ray can feel a new sheen of sweat on his forehead and wonders if he's going to pass out from the fear. "It's not something I _like_ to do, but I will, if forced."

His lips twist up as he adds, "Deathstroke can kill you, but I'll make you _wish_ you were dead."

* * *

 **4\. Hide and Seek**

After thirty years as a cop in Starling City, Quentin Lance has seen a lot of things in his lifetime. He's booked people for everything from jaywalking to murder, and, on one very memorable occasion, operating an illegal chinchilla ranch. Then there's the fact that most of the general public seems to agree that their sometimes-homicidal vigilantes who dress like comic book characters should be ignored by the police. In a turn of events more bizarre than that, he started his career arresting a guy dressed as Charlie Chaplin for credit card fraud and once had to book a guy in a cow suit for stealing 20 gallons of milk from a grocery store. So with a series of weird sights behind him, he was starting to think that nothing could ever faze him.

That changes, however, when he opens his apartment door to find Deathstroke on his couch.

In the four years he's been chasing her and the year and a half since he's met her, he's known the woman (the one he once thought was a man) to make some bold moves, but this one takes the cake. She's draped across his battered recliner with her feet on the coffee table, decked out in full gear, fully intent on his television. It takes a moment to register that she's watching some sort of show where one character is in a mask and miming the conduction of an orchestra while a building explodes, with the 1812 Overture playing in the background.

All he can do for a moment is gawk, but she saves him the trouble of speaking. "Good evening, Detective," Deathstroke greets him, as though she shows up in his house every night to watch his television when she probably has one of her own at home. "I went through your DVR," she informs him, "and I have to say, I'm a little disappointed with your boring choices. _FBI Files_ , _Unusual Suspects_ , and _Snapped_?" She turns back to look at him, that freaky mask tilting to the side. "This is what you watch for _fun?_ " Even through the modulator, he can hear her judgment. "I understand being consumed by your job, but this almost borders on unhealthy obsession. I took the liberty of adding a few things—you need some sci-fi in your life."

Unsure of what to do, he growls at her, "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

She seems genuinely surprised by the question. "Training exercises," Deathstroke answers. "I thought Sara would have told you about it." Her phone dings, and she sends a quick text before turning her attention back to him. "The best way to learn stealth is to practice—kind of a pass-fail sort of thing." With a shrug, she explains, "The Arrow says it's a task that requires stealth and an understanding of your opponent, but really, it's just the vigilante version of hide-and-go-seek." She reaches over to pat the seat beside her. "Have a seat, Detective. Make yourself at home."

"I will because it _is_ my home," he growls at her, but of course she doesn't flinch. When he steps closer, he realizes her sword belt is lying next to the chair. "I think it's safe to assume that my daughter didn't tell me about this." He crosses his arms as he drops onto the couch. "And it still doesn't explain why you're _here_ , instead hanging gun-runners by their feet down at the docks. Couldn't find anyone to decapitate?"

"I don't do that anymore," she replies, rolling her eyes. Even with the close proximity, he can't see her eye color in the low light. "Vigilante hide-and-seek has very simple rules: each member of the team is given thirty minutes to hide somewhere in the city. The goal is to avoid detection by any cameras as much as possible. We can't break in by force—we have to use lockpicks. One of us is assigned to hunt the other five down in an allotted time period." Her phone dings again, and she stops to answer it. "We have a newbie, Arsenal, so he's taking the brunt of the abuse."

Still scrolling through her phone (the name at the top says _Arrow_ , but he can't see the texts), she continues, "It's not a good game without five to capture, so we can only play when we have a fill-in. Tonight it's Nyssa, but Arsenal's girlfriend, Spartan's wife, Sara's friend Sin, and Wildcat fill in sometimes." Lance blinks at the variety of information. He didn't realize that Wildcat was still alive, or that he knew them well enough to join in on vigilante game night.

"Arsenal is on apprehension duty right now," she adds, waving a hand. "Because he's new, we've handicapped him at three hours to hunt the five of us down. He's allowed to use the camera feeds from base and his own instinct, and our cell phones are cloaked so he can't use that, either." She holds up her phone. "I keep track of where the others hide to keep them honest. If they catch four of us, they pass." He frowns in confusion, and with a lift of her shoulder, she explains, "The Arrow and I have only been caught twice—and never at the same time, so we decided four would be a fair number."

"That still does not explain why you're at my house watching some weird vigilante show on my TV," he growls at her. Only half-heartedly, he adds, "I could arrest you for this, you know." They both know he never would; after dismantling earthquake machines together, he has a growing soft spot for the girl—even though he'd never admit it aloud.

Deathstroke makes a sound that might be a snort, turning her attention back to the television screen. "If anyone here should be arrested," she declares, "it should be _you_ for having such narrow-minded tastes in TV shows. Both your DVR and your Netflix account are painfully centered on true crime TV." With a roll of her eyes, she answers the first half of his inquiry, "Everyone on the team knows each other uncomfortably well. I used to babysit Arsenal when he was still in diapers." That information makes Lance blink; usually she isn't so forthcoming with personal details. "So I had to do something he wouldn't expect." She motions toward the television. "And I was bored, so I decided to use your TV to watch something really revolutionary." She makes a sound that seems like a laugh. "Pun completely intended."

He doesn't get the joke, but stares at the screen to watch a little of it. He doesn't understand the connection to the previous scene and he doesn't mind interrupting Deathstroke. "So the rest of the team is scattered around town?"

"Just the Glades," Deathstroke responds, never taking her eyes off the screen. "Sara is on the roof of the Glades precinct posting hilarious stuff on her Black Canary Twitter account. Nyssa is in the old factory behind Verdant doing who-the-hell knows what. She gets bored with this, so her hiding places are really lame for a super assassin. Spartan is in Blood's campaign office—I think he's reading _War and Peace_ again." Only then does she turn to him, mirth dancing in her eyes as though she's smiling. "And the Arrow… well, he's kind of devious at this. Always hides in the last place anyone would expect. Which is why he's currently in my kitchen baking cupcakes."

Lance honestly doesn't know which part of that to comment upon first; it paints such a bizarre yet domestic picture to think of these vigilantes doing things as mundane as watching TV, reading, or cooking. Unable to resist, he asks for clarification, "The Arrow bakes?" It seems like a bizarre pastime for someone who spends his nights putting arrows in criminals.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Deathstroke answers with a subtle note of reverence. "He has a gift for it—not just baking, but cooking in general. If we didn't burn so many calories climbing buildings, chasing after bad guys, and kicking ass, we'd all weigh five hundred pounds." Nestling deeper into the chair, she adds, "I'll try to save you a few cupcakes this time, but no promises. Nyssa and I have gone samurai-swords-to-the-death over cupcakes before."

As he ponders that, he turns back to the television in time to watch the masked man give a speech: _Cruelty and injustice. Intolerance and oppression. And where you once had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission_. Tilting his head to the side, Lance listens to the rest with a sense of understanding. Though they don't fight the government, this must be some of how the vigilantes in the city feel.

Shaking his head and accepting his fate, he walks to the kitchen, grabbing a soda out of the fridge. He stops, grabbing a second for her. On his way back, he drops it on the coffee table for, watching the movie and making the best of the situation.

He's never watched a vigilante watch a movie before, but every once in a while, she'll quote along with the movie, especially the lines of Shakespeare scattered throughout. He finds it odd in some ways; he's heard Deathstroke tell the Arrow on more than one occasion that she isn't an idealist, but now she seems more like one than ever.

Just as the movie comes to an end, her phone beeps, and she stops to send a text. "It looks like we're done for the night," she declares. "Three out of five for Arsenal, which means he's getting better." She springs to her feet, buckling the sword belt over her chest before saying, "It was nice seeing you again, Detective. We should do this more often."

With that, she slips out the window, leaving him alone in an apartment that suddenly feels too quiet. With a sigh, he turns back to his television, flicking through his DVR just to see about what damage she did on his account. He's not surprised to find several sci-fi things, including the one about the masked revolutionary they just watched. They range from strangely amusing—something about robots-versus-monsters and an alien in a phone box—to utterly bizarre—an adult cartoon about a masked antihero and a couple of sci-fi Disney movies in hand-drawn animation.

He tolerates it, though, because in between he finds things that leave him feeling oddly touched; the shows are fictional, but it's like she took some time to think about what he might like. There's a drama about Navy cops, one from the 1960s that he watched as a kid, and one about a Wyoming sheriff. All seem to be focused on actual police work instead of forensics, which he appreciates. Mixed in are a few Western-type movies and shows, such as a John Wayne movie that takes place in a backwoods area of Missouri and a show that revolves around an educated California gunslinger.

Just when Lance is starting to feel a pang of fondness for the girl, it abruptly ends when he gets to the end of the list. It _has_ to be a prank—a harmless one, but _exactly_ the kind of thing that Deathstroke would pull for fun. The first is harmless enough, with a title of _Drop Dead Diva_. Not one he'd watch, just funny enough to be a joke. But for the next two, he's not laughing. Next there's something ominously titled _Green Porno_ that he doesn't even want to explore, and the last is an episode of something called _World's Weirdest_ whose title is proudly proclaimed as "Flatworm Penis Fencing."

Quentin likes to think of himself as a fair and just person, one who isn't petty or vengeful at all. Despite that, he still finds himself reaching for his phone and dialing the precinct. A paper pusher answers, to whom he growls, "This is Detective Lance. We have new information, and I need an APB out on Deathstroke for prostitution." She can make it go away, but that's part of the point. The officer sputters and Lance cuts him off. "Just do it, Officer." He scrambles for a moment, but then he remembers the story about that officer that Deathstroke hated.

So of course he adds, "Make sure you put Carrie Cutter down as the issuer."

* * *

 **5\. In Shining Armor**

Lance struggles against the restraints, even though he knows it's no use. Going after the Dollmaker with just the Arrow as backup was a mistake that he's now paying for; on either side of him are the two women he cares about: his daughter and his girlfriend. Both Laurel and Donna are crying and he knows the Arrow has no idea what's happened. They're all going to die here if he can't get free of the ropes.

As he's trying to break through, a high-pitched scream breaks through his concentration. First he looks at Donna to make sure she's all right, and he follows her gaze over to the corner. A short woman in a black-and-gold mask is standing in the small sliver of moonlight afforded by the warehouse windows, her hands on either side of her face as though she's covering her ears at the sound.

" _Bastá!_ " she shouts in that synthesized voice over Donna's screaming, followed by a long string of what Lance assumes is Russian. The first word he gets from his experiences interrogating the Bratva: _stop_. " _D'jávol_ , lady. Take it down an octave!" His girlfriend immediately stops, and Deathstroke tentatively removes her hands from her ears before muttering a few words that sound like curses in Russian. "I was going to ask if everyone was all right, but now I know your lungs are fine. _Kuso_." This time it sounds like something completely other than a Slavic language.

Despite the situation and that his girlfriend is probably terrified, Lance can't help but admit to her, "Never thought I'd be glad to see you." It's only then that he remembers that Deathstroke isn't always on the side of angels. "You are here to help us, right?"

She makes a sound under the modulator that sounds like a scoff. "Since when have you known me to hurt innocents, Detective?" she asks, taking a few steps toward them. " _Especially_ when there's a nice bad guy for me to hunt." She goes to Donna first, holding up her empty hands. "I'm going to use my knife cut you loose. It's in your best interest not to scream." She pulls a butterfly knife out of one pocket, flicking it open. Deathstroke cuts her rope first, before reaching for the buckled restraint around her middle.

As she does, Lance asks, "Does that mean your boyfriend is around here?"

Pulling the bindings from Donna's wrists almost gently, Deathstroke answers with a roll of her eyes, "What is it with you and a morbid interest in my love life? I have a mother, you know, and she's _very_ good at keeping up with those details." Donna nearly runs from the masked vigilante the moment she's released, but Vengeance of Starling assures her, "I'm not going to hurt you, Ms. Smoak. The good detective and I have an arrangement of sorts." The blonde looks between them, and Lance knows he'll have questions to answer later.

Fortunately, she doesn't get to ask them now, as Deathstroke, points to a long piece of pipe on the ground with a gloved hand. "While I free them, I need you to guard the door," she demands. "If it's the Dollmaker, swing." She holds up an index finger. "But _check_ first. The Arrow is running around here, and if you knock him out with a pipe, we'll _never_ get out of here. That man is like a ton of bricks when he's unconscious."

She turns back to Laurel, stating conversationally, "We have to stop meeting like this, Miss Lance." Only then does she go back to the detective's previous inquiry, cutting his daughter loose. "The Arrow is running around here. He figured it was time for the big guns, so he brought me."

Apparently overcoming her previous fear, Donna stares openly at the little vigilante. Lance understands her confusion; he'd been just as surprised the first time he saw her. Deathstroke may be small, but he's watched her carve through bodies himself, and it's a sight to behold. "I kind of thought you'd be… taller," Donna admits to her.

Deathstroke snorts. "Me, too," she answers as she undoes the last of Laurel's bindings. "My dad was over six feet tall." The past tense makes Lance balk a little; it's clearly an unconscious choice, and he doesn't want to know any more about her. The more he knows about the Arrow and Deathstroke, the more they feel like people.

Walking over to Lance, she starts in on his bindings. "So, Detective," she starts, sounding oddly chipper under that deep synthesizer, "did you watch _Green Porno_ yet?" He can _feel_ his face going red. "The bee one made me laugh, but I think it gave Arsenal nightmares. Poor kid." She shrugs. "Then again, he cries every time we watch _Steel Magnolias_ , so he's kind of impressionable."

As she cuts through the ropes at his wrists, she continues, "Oh, and I saw that APB you put out on me I knew it wasn't Cutter." Leaning over him, she tilts her head to the side so he sees that freaky mask floating above him. "Prostitution? Really?" He braces himself for the fallout, but she launches straight into, "I'm kind of disappointed. I thought you had better imagination. Why couldn't it be for taking a lion to the movies or something?"

"Flatworm penis fencing," is Lance's explanation, and she makes a noise of begrudging agreement in her throat.

As she frees him with a cheeky wink, she moves to the front of the room just as Donna swings the pipe at the man attempting to enter. Lance calls out in alarm the moment he sees the flash of green, but fortunately, the Arrow catches it before it can land. " _Bljad'_ ," is all he says, eyebrows rising, and Lance doesn't have to speak Russian—or whatever the hell it is—to know that's a curse word. He takes it from her as Donna mutters an apology, but Lance knows that of the two vigilantes, the Arrow isn't the one with the explosive temper.

Deathstroke actually laughs aloud at the situation, and the Arrow responds by saying something to her in Russian. The female vigilante sobers immediately. "That's just cruel," she snaps at him, a fire coming back in her eyes. "In any other situation, this would be the part where I threaten to make you sleep on the couch"—there are some things Lance does _not_ need to know—"but I'm a sucker for cuddling. We'll just go a few more practice rounds. With swords."

If the detective didn't know better, he'd say the fearsome Arrow pales a little at that thought. He brushes past Donna, nodding once at Lance before noting the rope on the ground. "This could be useful," he remarks under his modulator, his words only for his partner. "We should take it with us."

Placing her hands on her hips, she replies without missing a beat, "You know, if you want me to tie you up, all you have to do is ask." Laurel gapes and Donna makes an odd sound in her throat, but Lance is more than familiar with the way she flirts with him for fun. Sadly, it's not the most explicit thing he's ever heard from her before.

There's a slight curve to the Arrow's mouth, but he continues as though she just said something about the weather. "I was thinking about tying up the Dollmaker for the cops, actually," he responds evenly, his smile indulgent.

Deathstroke crosses her arms. "Well, that's not as fun," she replies with a sigh, helping him pick up the last of the rope. "But it's probably for the best. This rope is a little too rough for what I had in mind." There's a challenge in her eyes, and she shares a look with her fellow vigilante that Lance doesn't really want to be present for. "I've always pictured you as a silk tie kind of guy." Quickly she rushes to add, "Not that I've been picturing anything. Or fantasizing. You're still not my type."

The Arrow says something back in Russian, and Lance _really_ doesn't want to know because his tone makes it sound absolutely filthy. If the choking sound she makes is any indication, it probably is. Either way, he can't help but grin because Deathstroke—shameless Deathstroke—suddenly won't look at her partner and seems to be a little outwitted.

"You get them to the exit, and I'll slice-and-dice," she promises him over her shoulder. Guys who prey on women are the lowest form of creep. Since Black Canary and her assassin girlfriend rode off into the sunset and she isn't here to take him down, I volunteer as tribute."

The Arrow shakes his head, making a rumbling sound that Lance thinks might be a laugh. "That movie might have been one of the most depressing things I've ever been forced to watch," he states. They share a look that says so much more than any words, but Lance doesn't speak Vigilante. "And that's saying something." He ushers the three of them toward the door before turning back to her and asking in a quiet voice, "You sure you can handle it alone?"

Though Lance has witnessed many strange things, the most bizarre is easily watching Deathstroke wink at her partner. "As dad always said, 'if you're not here to win, get the hell out of Kuwait.'" Something about her expression suggests a smile, and she pulls her swords from their sheaths. Donna visibly flinches, and Lance takes her hand. For the first time, he notices the characters engraved in the surface. Some sort of East Asian language, he'd guess. For not the first time, he wonders who she is under the mask, this woman who swings swords with Oriental markings and speaks Russian with ease.

Taking the statement as affirmation, the Arrow nods once, his hand dropping on her shoulder. "I want you in one piece," is all he says to her, but there's no question there's something else underneath. This time, Lance can hear the subtext as though he's screaming it. Her hand goes to his face, lingering there, and if there was ever any question about her knowing his identity, it's gone now.

To his surprise, Donna actually steps toward the smaller of the two vigilantes. As though confused, she asks slowly, "Did you just quote _Pitch Perfect_?" The detective doesn't understand that question at all, but it seems to be important to her for some reason—more important, apparently, than trying to get away from the Dollmaker.

The vigilante snaps her fingers, turning to Lance. "Damn it, I forgot that one. The next time I break into your house, I'll add it to your DVR."

* * *

 **+1. Louder than Words**

Oliver is pacing. It's not something he does with any sort of regularity, especially not in the foyer of the Queen mansion, but today, he is. Maybe this was a mistake, but then again, his family has always been very big on image, fond of making a point without saying anything. _Actions speak louder than words_ , his father always said. _You can tell a reporter a thousand times that you have a strong sense of family, but nothing is more powerful than standing together for the world to see._

Of course, those were always just acts, something to do for the media circus and frenzy. At the end of the day, his father went back to multiple, nameless women that weren't his wife, and of course his mother had an affair herself. While the official family motto may be _tenax et fidelis_ —ironically, _persevering and faithful_ —the one he's been taught since birth was instead _image is everything_.

Unlike many things he's done in his life, today is about the truth.

As if to punctuate his point, the doorbell rings. Because he's closest to the door and no longer stands on that kind of ceremony, he answers it himself, taking a deep breath of relief when he sees her. Felicity has had that effect on him for a long time, even before he fell in love with her.

She's stunning, of course, but he'd expect nothing less. While it's true in the physical sense as well, it's really a side issue at this point. She's taken more care with her appearance than he's ever seen, not a hair out of place. Instead of ponytails and glasses, her hair is loose and she wears her contacts. The short-sleeved dress she wears is a new one—navy blue with a colorful array of flowers printed across it, falling just above the knee. The V in the neckline plunges to the bottom of her breastbone in a way that's both tasteful and torment. A gold arrow hangs on a thin chain around her neck, and he realizes that he isn't the only one painting a picture today. She knows actions speak louder than words, too.

She's also put together in a way that shows she took time with this, from the dress, to the pink fingernails that match her dress, to the yellow heels she wears that have black-and-white butterflies on the heels. Her poise now is a mask, another layer she wears. Felicity Smoak is a woman who understands the power of good armor—and that it isn't always a Kevlar jacket or a metal plate.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" is the first question she asks him, her voice low and her words in Mandarin. "There's a very strong possibility your mother won't forgive you for this. She already hates me—I don't want her to hate you, too."

Though he always appreciates her genuine concern for him—a scarce commodity in his world—Oliver knows _precisely_ what he's doing today, and he's more than willing to pay the consequences later. Some things are worth fighting for, and eventually his mother will have to learn that some lines that cannot be crossed. He was more than willing to forgive Moira for her role in the Undertaking. Even for her affair with Malcolm Merlyn. Though the betrayal is still raw right now, he's confident that he'll even forgive her for hiding Thea's paternity—from _all_ of them. But she still made two mistakes he isn't willing to forget—or forgive: she let someone else do the honors of telling him, and tried to threaten her into silence.

Felicity may be concerned with the implications of picking her over his family, but Oliver is more concerned about what kind of person it would make him if he chose _not_ to defend someone who has taken bullets for him.

Of course he loves her, but in this one instance, love never enters into that equation. Felicity told him the truth because she couldn't fathom the possibility of lying to him, even if it meant he never forgave her. Now Oliver intends to stand by her in the same way, and damn the consequences. That is something he'd do for Tommy or Diggle just as easily as he would for Felicity.

Ray once told him that the two of them have the best partnership in business. This is why.

Oliver meets Felicity's eyes before answering her question, pausing long enough to assure her that he's thought about this for a long time and is content with his decision. "Sometimes it's hard to believe," he assures her with a partial smile, "but I _do_ know what I'm doing, Felicity." Concern wars across her features and he reminds her, "You don't have to do this." He offers her his hand to take, a silent question of _are you with me?_ hanging between them. Not that he doesn't know the answer.

She smiles back at him, taking the extended hand and linking her fingers through his. "I'd follow you to Hell and back, Oliver," Felicity declares, as if the idea was a novel one. It isn't; she has before. "This is just a family dinner." Her eyes betray her nervousness, but, as always, she puts on a brave face. He hates that he's asking her to wear yet another mask, yet he has now idea how else to make this statement.

Oliver has never been very good with words, even before the island. Since, he's bared his soul and trusted people who inevitably betrayed him, and now he can't even bring himself to force the words out to the same people he'd die for. They fail him at her unyielding loyalty, so all he can do is lift their joined hands up to his lips, kissing the back of her hand, hoping it conveys all the words he can't say.

When she squeezes his hand in response, he knows he has.

He leads her toward the dining room the same way he'd walk through an abandoned building in the Glades, wary and tense. Before they can come into view, he squeezes her hand once more before dropping it, ushering her into the dining room with a hand at the small of her back.

He makes sure to watch his mother at the head of the table, and the look on her face is priceless. She told him to bring someone since Tommy and Laurel are both in attendance, but he doubts she ever expected for it to be Felicity. They may not be together—and everyone in the room knows that—but it's still a strong statement of Oliver's favorite kind: it doesn't require a single word.

Despite that, he does give her a few, anyway: "Mom, I'm sure you remember Felicity." He doesn't re-introduce her to everyone else because it isn't necessary. Tommy and Thea know her as his friend, his business partner, and his vigilante partner, while Laurel knows her as a friend and the woman who will probably become her stepsister.

The proper responses are made, but there's a hardness in Moira's eyes that tell Oliver everything in a single glance: he will not be forgiven for this betrayal. He's always been very close to his mother, and, in another life, that would have deeply upset him. As far as he's concerned, however, she was the one to betray him first. Before the island, he would have forgiven her time and time again, but he used to be a much softer person. That version of Oliver would have never responded with this show of defiance, but five years in his own personal Hell has hardened him. Forgiveness isn't an easy reaction anymore. He might someday, but she'll have to work for it.

He pulls out Felicity's chair for her, and she thanks him as he returns to his own. Since he's been back from the island, it's mostly assumed that he sits at the other head of the long table, directly across from his mother. It had been his father's place before that, and while it made him feel like an exhibit on display, it makes an even better touch.

Oliver watches his mother calculate throughout the conversation, and he sees the exact moment she understands the message with complete clarity. Not only has he distanced himself at the opposite end of the table from her with one of the few people on the planet he'd willingly die for, but he made the effort to seat her on the far side of the table from the entrance

An action that places Felicity at his right hand.

In a family so obsessed with image and appearances, it's always been an important place of power in the Queen household. Oliver remembers his father at his grandfather's right hand seat when he was younger, in some of his earliest memories. More recently, the head of the table had been occupied by Robert Queen, with Walter at his right hand in business meetings and Moira there at family gatherings. It's how he had known she married Walter; she positioned him at her right hand. How Moira now chooses to interpret the message is her choice, but Oliver knows he's made his statement without uttering a single word. He didn't need to.

In the Queen family, actions speak louder than words.

 **Notes:** A small playlist, one song for each scene:

"Believe" - Hollywood Undead  
"Pale Watchers" - Darren Korb  
"EP 8 Score - Players and Pieces" - Jeff Williams & Alex Abraham  
"The Mancer's Dilemma" - Darren Korb  
"I Know What I Am" - Band of Skulls  
"Monster" - Paramore

All language stuff comes from an extensive look at Wiktionary. I don't actually know anything that isn't English or Spanish, so if I got it wrong, let me know.

Bastá = "stop," "that's enough" (Russian)  
Bljad' = a really nasty curse; use your imagination (Russian)  
D'jávol = "damn it" (Russian)  
Kuso = shit (Japanese)  
Lemá'an hashém = "for God's sake" (Hebrew)

Dialogue prompts:

#1 - "There is a knife—" / "Yes." / "In your _chest!_ " / "Yes." / "Oh my God—" / "Oh, please. _I'm_ the one who is supposed to go into shock, not you!"  
#2 - "I hope you don't mind, but I helped myself to your weapons jackpot."  
#3 - "If you would put down the katana, I could explain everything properly."

Lastly, what Oliver said in Russian in #5? I'll let you use your imagination. ;) I'd love to hear your theories.


End file.
